LordoftheHunt (6 page)

Hugh rolled his eyes and maneuvered his horse so Adam’s was
forced into line with Brian’s. They followed Mathilda’s entourage back to the
castle.

Brian leaned near Adam. “I do remember something more of
Joan’s story. The men who killed her family were some of King John’s Flemish
mercenaries. There was quite a furor about it at the time.”

Adam jerked on his reins. His horse shied. He controlled his
mount and his voice. “Flemish mercenaries?”

“Aye. It is said Joan Swan has but one passion—the hatred of
mercenaries.”

Douglas shook Adam from sleep and handed him a tankard of
cool, fresh ale. Adam’s head felt stuffed with wool after a night of drinking
and feasting, and not one step forward in William Marshal’s mission. Adam had
managed to search only one chamber, Lord Roger’s.

The man was slovenly. He hid his documents and money purse
under his mattress where any servant might find them. In addition, the man had
naught incriminating save a list of properties, bolts of cloth, spices, and
jewelry for the lady.

As a bribe to a bishop, it was mediocre. Surely, Roger,
rising forty years, could do better. His father, an earl, might be as old as
the Roman Way, but he was rich as Croesus.

The sun painted a bronze gleam on his tent.

“I was having wonderful dream, Douglas. In it, you allowed
me to sleep until supper and instead of your ugly face, I was awakened by a
sweet, young maid wearing naught but her hair.”

“Happens she were here, but ye chased ‘er off with yer
snoring.”

“Would that it were true.” Adam handed back the empty
tankard and washed his face and hands in a basin of hot water Douglas set out
on the table.

“Ye’ve some nasty bruises on yer arse,” Douglas said,
handing Adam the linen shirt he would wear beneath his tunic.

“Aye. I feel like I took two fingers off my height with that
fall from Sinner.”

“Can ye manage the brute in the tournament?”

“Don’t look so downcast. I’ll excel and nurse my aching body
after. You’ll not be shamed by my performance.”

“At least the tournament is a few days off. Ye’ll heal some
in that time. Find a bath and soak a bit—none o’ that swimming yer so fond of.
Evil poisons in river water, ye know.”

“Aye, my physician. Any other advice?”

Douglas shook his head and held out three belts.

“This one.” Adam buckled on the belt he liked best, one
studded with smoky topaz, a gift from a fine French woman who’d ordered one
topaz for each night of passion they’d shared. “What has the bishop planned for
our day?”

“
My
day is set. Burnishing harness and weapons,
oiling leather. Ye’re to grapple for the lady’s attentions. Half-naked. It isna
decent.” Douglas gave a loud sniff.

Adam shook his head and thrust a topaz-embellished dagger
into his belt sheath. “So the lady lied. It is not we who will enjoy the
festivities, but we who will provide them.

“What happened to skewering each other with swords and
daggers, and the last man standing wins the lady’s hand? We’ll not likely
eliminate any candidates with such tame amusements.”

“Blood-letting being more sure? But it will not amuse the
ladies quite as well,” Douglas said.

Adam plucked a pair of braies from his bed and stuck his
finger through a rent in the linen. “You’ll need to stitch this then, or I’ll
shame myself.”

He headed for the armory to see about his sword. When he
entered the hot space, the armorer looked up, his hammer raised over the tip of
a lance.

“I sent my sword over last evening.”

“Don’t have yer sword.” The man returned to his hammering.

“A page brought it. It has my “V” incised in the hilt.”

The man’s eyes shifted left, but he shook his head. “Never
seen it.”

Adam turned and examined the ranks of weapons. There were
far too many for peacetime. And just the right number for war. He plucked his
sword from the group. “This is it.”

He examined the hilt. It bore a mark along the cross guard
as if a chisel had been hammered against where it joined the blade. “What have
you done here? It’s worse now.”

The man shrugged, but he lifted his hammer and hefted it in
his hand. The action was less threat than nervousness, Adam decided.

Adam examined the sword from one end to the other. “I’ll
give you twice what you were offered to damage this hilt if you will tell me
who hired you to do it.”

“It were given to me that way.” The man licked his lips.

Adam spun and pressed the point of the sword under the man’s
chin. “This hilt will last but one thrust, I imagine. Enough to cut your
throat. His name.”

Sweat ran down the man’s temples. He licked his lips. “I
ne’er seen ‘im.”

“Then I suppose you’ll die.”

“Nay,” the man croaked. “I know only he were alone. He came
up behind me, offered me three marks to fix a sword. He said I were not to
turn, I’d find it in the straw.”

“In what manner did he want it fixed?”

The man blinked as sweat ran in his eyes. “He just said,
‘Fix it so ‘e willna last more than a thrust er two.’”

“You knew it was my sword.”

“Ever one knows ye wear the—” He stroked the air with a
quick, slashing V.

“Do they?”

“Aye. Some say as ye’ve carved it into the breast of
everyone o’ yer lovers.”

How reputations were made. “I’ll give you six marks to
repair my sword—properly this time. Ten marks if you can discover the name of
the man who plots my fall.”

The man stared. “Ye’re not goin’ to kill me?”

Adam smiled. “Oh, I’ll kill you. I’ll carve my “V” in your
chest so deep you’ll be dead before you fall,” the man’s face paled,“
if
my sword fails in the tournament.”

He tossed the weapon through the air. The armorer caught it
and clasped it to his chest like a cross on which he would pledge his eternal
soul.

Once in the bailey, Adam found his page. He hooked the lad
by the neck of his tunic and dragged him aside. “To whom did you give my
sword?”

The boy met his gaze with a guileless stare that told Adam
the lad was innocent as a virgin bride. “I give it o’er to one o’ yer men. He
were waiting outside, he were.”

“Which one?”

The boy’s face screwed up in thought. “I canna say.”

“And what did he look like?”

“‘E wore a helm, and it were dark. ‘E had a mark ‘ere.” The
boy touched the back of his hand.

Adam gave the boy a shake. “Next time, give nothing of mine
into any hand but the one to whom I direct you. Now find Douglas and seek a
worthy punishment for such stupidity.”

* * * * *

Joan and Edwina followed Del up the outer steps to the wall
walk. He elbowed aside a few lads from the wash house to make space and set an
empty nail keg down for Edwina to stand upon.

“This will do,” Edwina said. She patted Del’s beefy arm.

Joan propped her arms on the stone ledge of the wall and
looked across the crowded bailey. “I’ve not seen such finery since last King
John visited.”

Below, a seating area ringed an open patch of clipped grass,
like a bed of lush summer flowers. Flowers formed of the bright colors of the
ladies’ gowns and men’s tunics.

Next to Joan, Del wagered with a few spectators. Edwina
nudged Joan’s ribs. “Step aside, I’d like some of that play.”

Joan curtsied, smiled, and stepped back so Edwina could join
in the wagering. When Edwina resumed her position, Joan searched the spectators
for Nat, but did not see him.

“I hope Nat’s not making wagers,” she said.

“He’s no sense to ‘im. He’ll wager on a man ‘e likes rather
than on one with the strength to win.”

“Or worse, on the advice of others who know as little as he.
Do you see him? Should I look for him?”

Edwina held Joan’s arm. “Leave the man be. He’s probably
with the hounds. He has little interest in wrestling.”

“I have little interest in it either. How watching sweaty
men grapple will help decide whether a man will make a good husband, I cannot
say.”

“And I suppose ye think she should judge him on his
kindness?” Edwina grinned.

“And why not?”

“A kind man is most likely a weak man, is why. Our lady
would be just as happy picking the finest-looking man. He, at least, might
please in bed.”

The wagering men laughed and Joan looked away. “Edwina—”

“Hush.” The laundress pointed down at the circle of grass
marked off with ropes. The bishop took his seat in the tiers of benches
constructed for favored spectators. All others must watch from where they
could. Mathilda sat between the bishop and the wife of one of Ravenswood’s
knights.

An expectant hush fell on the crowd when two men walked to the
center of the grass. They wore only their braies. They were barefoot and
weaponless.

The bishop outlined the rules. The winner must throw his
opponent to the ground such that he hit on at least three-points. The bishop
alone would determine the winner.

Gravant called out for the contest to begin and the two men
circled each other, arms extended. Along with the start came a swell of
shouting for one man or the other.

Joan tore her gaze from the bishop. Her hatred of him surely
meant a long stint in purgatory.

“What do you know of this pair?” a woman near Edwina asked.

Edwina gave the lineage of each man. “They’ve a poor chance
o’ winning the lady. They may be finer of face than Roger Artois, but they
haven’t his wealth or influence. De Harcourt has my money. He’ll make a fine
match there,” she nodded at the small arena “as well as for the lady—” Edwina
broke off.

One of the wrestlers put the other on his back.

Shouts of derision accompanied the winner and loser as they
left the circle. Edwina sighed and handed a penny to Del.

The bishop raised two fingers. The bishop’s silent signals
to his minions had given Joan the idea for taking control of the hounds. It had
been watching the scurrying to please Gravant that made Joan realize she might
be able to save Nat from the man’s unkindness—nay, the word was too mild.

The bishop had no kindness. Or patience. He begrudged the
smallest compliment to the servants. Over the past month, he’d evicted any
number of tenants for petty reasons so he might set his own men in their
places. The manor was in an uproar. These festivities mocked the people’s mood.

And Nat wandered vaguely through his tasks, accomplishing
all of them, but not always in as timely a manner as he once had.

Fear of the bishop’s wrath, his quick dismissal of men and
women no matter how long they’d served the manor, gave her sleepless nights.
Now, the anxieties were drawing to a close.

Mathilda would choose her husband and the bishop would
return to his palace. If the hounds obeyed Joan’s signals over Nat’s
increasingly vague orders, all might be well.

A man by the bake house, his arms crossed on his chest, drew
Joan’s eye away from the bishop. It was Adam Quintin.

He wore his black mantle flung back over his shoulders. He
no longer looked common. The pin holding the mantle might be simple, but the
ivory tunic and jeweled belt were not.

“Is Quintin not wrestling?” Joan felt an unaccountable
disappointment.

“Aye, he will. Mathilda said every man, no exceptions.”

Joan forced herself to shift her attention from Adam Quintin
to Lady Mathilda.

“Aye, look at her and dream.” Edwina gave her a sharp elbow.
“Ye should be sitting down there.”

Joan examined the women who filled the seats near Mathilda.
Not all were noble, but those who could not claim such high birth were worthy
wives of the castle’s knights.

“That day is done. Only you miss it,” Joan said.

“If Richard hadn’t wanted ye, Lord Guy would have been
content with your friendship with Mathilda.”

With a glance about to see who might be listening, Joan
shrugged. “Richard was a wonderful man, God rest his soul.”

“And mad with love for ye.”

“He’d have forgotten me soon enough if Lord Guy had not
taken on about it. It was a boy’s love, not a man’s.”

“He loved ye. He left here and swore he’d never return until
Lord Guy agreed he could offer for ye.”

“It was defying his father he was in love with, not me.”

“If any good come of ‘is death, it were Lord Guy’s vow to
leave Mathilda to make her own choice.”

“Aye. He did blame himself for Richard’s death.”

“And rightly so. He drove the man out. And poor Richard dead
within a twelve month.”

Joan said a short prayer for Richard’s soul. He’d have
forgotten her, but still, he had risked much for his boyish love—or his
stubborn ways.

“I spoke with Mathilda today.”

“Why? Did she ask you to fetch something for her?” Edwina
wrinkled her nose.

“She asked after a huntsman who’s ailing. She specifically
asked that I bring the reply, so she did wish to speak to me.”

“What else did she say?”

Joan made a wry face. “She asked about Brian de Harcourt.”

“Ah, ha! She cared naught for you—or the huntsman. She
wanted information on a suitor. That is all.” Edwina spat on the wooden floor
of the wall walk. “Don’t ye be drawn into fetching for her. Yer not her
servant.”

Joan tried to attend to the wrestling, but found little to
hold her interest. She looked over the spectators, assessing gowns and the
features of suitors who awaited their bouts. Unable to resist, she turned
toward the buttery and Adam Quintin. He was gone.

Adam ignored the many stalls and the importuning of several
merchants, skirted the buildings crouched at the base of the castle wall, and
strode through the inner bailey to the outer ward.

An old man, Ivo, one of his father’s clerks, hurried by,
looking straight through him. The man’s lack of greeting reminded Adam he was a
stranger in his father’s castle. Euphoria warred with a deep sadness. He needed
anonymity to accomplish his mission for William Marshal, but once, he’d been an
honored heir here.

He looked up at the tall towers touched with a patina of age
and knew it was not because of the stone edifice that he must have Ravenswood.
Nay, it was what the towers represented. The first lord of Ravenswood had not
built this fortress to have it fall into the hands of any but his own kin.

His father’s banishment must be lifted. The de Marle name,
as venerable as these walls, must be restored.

Adam knew his first action as lord of Ravenswood Castle
would be to take his grandfather’s sword down from the wall. He would clean it
and hone it.
And wear it
.

It was for the de Marle honor he labored. A rueful smile
overspread his face. To regain his honor he must leave it behind and skulk
about like a common thief. The irony amused him…when it did not pain him.

Eventually, and circuitously, he ended his wanderings at de
Harcourt’s tent. The man had a chamber in the hall, but Adam also knew by
Douglas’ gossip that Brian came here to dress. To garb oneself as finely as de
Harcourt did, he must have at least one sizable coffer. Within, Adam hoped to
find evidence de Harcourt either connived with a foreign king or did not.

With a glance about to be sure no one observed him, Adam
entered the tent. It was empty and filled with a dim morning light. Outside,
the sounds of merry-making would mark his time. He could count by the jeers and
cheers how long he had until his bout, second to last, and if anyone challenged
his right to be here, he would simply say he wanted to talk to Brian in
privacy.

The accoutrements of Brian’s tent did not compare to his
own. The tent held little but a simple pallet with furs for a servant, Adam
assumed, since Brian slept in the keep. Luckily, there was one chest.

It was not locked as was his own. Adam lifted the lid. The
scent of oiled metal, leather, and wool wafted up to him. Atop the well-filled
chest was a neatly folded gambeson. The padded leather garment, meant to be
worn beneath armor, was old. A fine, well-oiled hauberk was next to it. His own
mail coat was not quite as well maintained, and he made a silent vow to take
Douglas to task when he returned. It would not do to be shown in a poor light
next to Brian.

As Adam searched deeper, he found other clothing worthy of a
man courting a fine lady. Several documents and five linen-wrapped packages lay
at the very bottom of the chest.

His heart thundered. To be found reading Brian’s papers was
to be caught out. What excuse had he? None.

Quickly, standing as near as he dared to the tent flap to
keep watch for anyone approaching, he unrolled and scanned the first document.
It was a directive from Brian’s father to his son, admonishing him to secure
Ravenswood at all costs. Brian was bid to spare no expense, do his duty, show
his manly strengths, excel in every test, and extend the family holdings as
every de Harcourt before him had done.

Roger’s father had merely listed the bribes he should offer.
No long, strident sentences, no terse admonishments, just a dry list.

Adam imagined the missive
his
father would write. It
would say something like follow your heart or that Ravenswood bought through
wedded slavery was not worth the price.

His father did not understand the burn Adam felt inside to
regain what King John had snatched away. Adam knew he was capable and worthy of
the trust in arms that rule of Ravenswood Castle required.

It was this battle of wits, a hidden battle, he felt
inadequate to win.

Adam rolled de Harcourt’s letter and dropped it into the
coffer. The second was an accounting of gifts Brian was to offer the bishop if
he was chosen by Mathilda. The list was about equal to Lord Roger’s, but Adam
knew he could match them both possession for possession.

He opened a third document. It held close writing in a
careless hand, much blotted.

“
Jesu
. Greek. I’m sunk.” He stuffed the letter into
his tunic, retied the other two, and turned his attentions to the five bundles
on the floor. Each proved to be a piece of jewelry, a portion of those detailed
on the parchment from de Harcourt. A sample of riches to come.

Adam replaced the bundles and reached for the clothing. A
laugh outside drew his attention.
Brian’s
.

Heart racing, Adam hastily folded away the clothing and had
just shut the lid and sat upon it when Brian entered his tent.

“Adam!” Brian started back. “What the devil are you doing
here?”

“Waiting for you.” Adam praised himself for the calmness of
his voice and God for the dimness of the tent. He knew his cheeks to be as red
as a king’s robe.

Adam’s heartbeat stilled a bit from a thunder to a horse’s
gallop. He wrapped his arms about one knee in negligent ease.

“So, what is it you want?” Brian asked. “More information?”

“What?” Adam said sharply. Had Brian seen through him so
easily?

“Aye. About Joan Swan. Come, do not tell me you are not
interested. You watched her at the hunt like one of the hawks might watch a sparrow.”
Brian took the three strides toward him. He placed his hand on his sword hilt.
“Joan is not some bitch in heat to be chased. Leave her alone or you’ll answer
to me.”

“And what is she to you?” Adam’s disbelief felt as tangible
as a punch in the chest.

“I have a duty to protect her in my friend’s memory who
loved her. She may be as plain as a simple sparrow, but she is not prey.”

Adam shot to his feet, then forced himself to stand still,
hands at his sides. The sharp edge of the parchment he’d purloined from de
Harcourt’s coffer reminded him he must not offend, but leave with dignity,
giving no hint of his sins here.

“Richard loved her, I assume?” Adam knew he must ignore the
insults, the ludicrous accusation that Joan was plain.

Or prey
.

“Aye,” Brian said. “Richard wanted her badly, but Lord Guy
would have none of it. Richard thought he could bring his father around if he
left for a bit, gave the old man time to reconcile himself to the idea.
Instead, Richard died.”

“Did Joan love him?”

Brian paced around the tent, fingertips skimming over
surfaces. “I think she was dazzled, as one is when looking at sunlight
reflected on snow.” He faced Adam. “She needed comforting not only for the loss
of Richard, but for Lord Guy’s treatment of her both before Richard left and
after. She has been forbidden the hall until these festivities for Mathilda.”

“You must watch her as much as I do,” Adam said.

They stood toe to toe.

Brian spoke first. “Do not be another who heedlessly harms
her. If Richard dazzled, you, who are akin to the sun itself, will blind her.
And if you do aught to hurt her, you will answer to me.”

Adam now knew who had comforted the huntress.

The muted sound of the crowds congratulatory cheers reminded
them both that their turn was nigh.

“These are heated words for a man courting another woman. Is
it Joan you fear I’ll dazzle or our lady?” Adam turned and left the tent.

* * * * *

Joan stifled a yawn, then swallowed it. Adam Quintin was
walking with long, hurried strides toward the tent where the wrestlers
disrobed. He had a deep furrow between his brows. Several steps behind him
followed Brian de Harcourt. He wore the same frown.

“Forget yon knights. They’ll be on soon enough,” Edwina
said. With as much grace as possible, Joan slowly turned her gaze from Quintin
to the greensward. She feigned an interest she could not feel.

One of the wrestlers was unexceptional—Yves of York, Edwina
called him. The other, half his size, with a face marked by angry pimples,
darted around his opponent to the great amusement of the crowd. He looked like
one of Nat’s puppies challenging the leader of the pack.

“That boy is far too young to be a serious candidate for
Lady Mathilda. I wonder who he is,” Joan said.

Edwina gave his name as Francis de Coucy. “He’s but ten and
five. It is his father, Lord Charles, who makes him a strong candidate.” Edwina
shuddered. “But e’s an ugly brute.”

“I cannot wait for that Adam Quintin to wrestle,” a nearby
woman said. “Now there’s a fair face.”

“Oh?” Joan hoped her voice sounded disinterested. “Is he
expected to win his bout?”

“Quintin?” the woman said. “I imagine he will win any bout
he fights. Have you seen his men? A man who can control those mercenaries must
be strong, else they would not respect him.”

“He’s not one of them, though,” Joan said.

“Aye, he is. He rose from the ranks of King John’s Flemish
mercenaries. They’re not as bad as the Bretons, but still, they’re all brutes,
I say.”

Joan gripped the stone ledge of the wall. “F-Flemish
mercenaries?”

“Aye. Led them, bested their commander, saved William
Marshal’s life at least once, and was knighted for his valor in the field, by
the Marshal himself.”

Joan looked up at the sun. She used the light as an excuse
to shield her eyes and turn aside.

A Flemish mercenary.

All around her wagers flew, men laughed, women flirted,
children ran back and forth. But Joan felt none of the joy.

“Edwina, I think I’ll go look for Nat.”

But Edwina took her hand. She raised it, kissed it, then
held it tightly. “I heard what she said. So, he’s a mercenary. He’s too young
to have been one of
your
mercenaries. I’ll not let you run away and hide
in the kennels.”

“Thank you, you’re right. It is nonsense.”

As Joan stood there beside her friend, her hand held by that
woman’s square, strong fingers, she felt strength returning. It was thirteen
years ago. It was long over. Adam Quintin must have been all of ten and seven
or ten and eight at the time.
Her
mercenaries had been older men.
Ancient they’d looked to her ten-year-old eyes, though they might have been any
age from thirty to forty.

She’d only seen them afterward.
After the dogs had
finished with them
.

Edwina slid an arm around her waist and hugged her closer
still. “They’re not all bad, ye know. Some are just men earning a wage.”

“They kill for a purse,” Joan said softly.

“And they’ll leave here soon enough, so you may put them
from your mind.”

“But should Quintin win our lady’s hand, they’ll stay,” Joan
said. The sound of her voice shamed her, for it was a stew of jealousy and
fear.

“Then go yourself. Now hush.”

Joan stared at the chinks of mortar between the wall stones,
mortar beginning to crumble as was her fortitude.

Go herself
. So easily said. So impossible to do.

Below, the man and boy displayed their strength before Lady
Mathilda, though the lady looked bored. The man named Yves slipped on ground
made muddy by combat. He did not rise.

As they watched, the man’s squire ran out to him while the
bishop declared his opponent the winner. The boy capered about, his arms raised
in victory.

“He’s broken ‘is arm, the wretch.” Edwina slapped a penny in
Del’s hand. “Now he won’t be in the throwing competition either, and I did much
hold hope for him there.”

The crowd taunted the man, his wrist cradled against his
chest, as he left the circle. The boy received the same treatment despite being
declared the victor.

A murmur went up from the crowd. Brian de Harcourt and Adam
Quintin had entered the grass circle. The two men made their obeisance to the
bishop and a hush fell across the spectators. No pair of combatants had commanded
such attention from the crowd.

Heat washed down Joan’s body when she saw the long, red trio
of scratches on Adam Quintin’s bare shoulder. They disappeared in the thatch of
hair on his chest. He was better garbed than he had been in the river shallows,
for then he had been naked.

A cloud crossed the men, draping them in shadow, and for a
moment, Joan was back on the riverbank, staring at the knight as he rose from
the water like a water deity, laughing, thrusting Matthew aside, the water
washing across his honed muscles. He had appeared forged in metal like the
sword he had used to kill the boar.

As it had by the river, a liquid sting of desire joined the
heat already kindled within her middle.

The men met in a smack of flesh. In moments, their bodies
were slick with mud as one after the other they put each other on their backs,
but never on three-points. Each time, they leapt apart to circle each other
anew.

“They might as well be naked,” Edwina said with a nudge in
Joan’s side. “Romans wrestled naked hereabouts, ye know.”

The stirring in Joan’s loins intensified. Edwina was right.
Sweat streaked the mud on their torsos; their wet braies clung to their thighs
and buttocks.

As the bout continued, the crowd grew frantic. The shouts of
encouragement or derision seemed to echo from one end of the stone-walled
bailey to the other. Quintin shook mud and sweat from his eyes. His body was as
supple as the hounds she ran, and yet he reminded her more of one of the huge
stags that locked antlers in the forest in battle over the hind.

And Lady Mathilda was the prize to be won or lost in these
mock combats. Joan watched Lady Mathilda slip to the edge of her seat, then
rise on tiptoe. Her eyes were round as coins, and she held her hands clasped to
her chest. Which man did Mathilda most desire?